


The Watcher

by NRGburst



Series: To Temper Steel [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Angst, Discussion of Past Sexual Trauma, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Panic Attack, a little taste of podsa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-07-09 09:30:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19885414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NRGburst/pseuds/NRGburst
Summary: Because it's not easy to witness another Stark marrying a dark-haired, blue-eyed, bastard-turned-Lord. Even if she knows, heart and head, that it's not at all the same.Two-shot (Arya POV, Sansa POV)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Compliant to [To Temper Steel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18877969)-verse, but it's not prerequisite reading. Set during the epilogue, when they're at Winterfell (while making the journey to the Wall so Arya and Gendry can get married where there's a Heart Tree, Jon and it's politically neutral).

They’ve done this literally hundreds of times, but there’s still an extra lick of excitement over the fact that it’s going to be on her bed here in Winterfell. Arya’s still emotional too-- Ice is finally back where it should be, her family is safe, and this man who loves her so much has given so much of himself to ensure both.

And it’s always been easier to show Gendry how she feels over telling him.

They cooperate as usual to shed their clothing on their way to the bed between kisses: cloaks off, then she undoes his leather doublet and he shrugs it off while she undoes her tunic laces before he pulls it over her head. She’s untying the string on his pants when his eyes widen and he pulls back.

“This the bed you used to sleep on?” he asks, frowning.

“Yes, but I’m sure they put on fresh linens and furs when they brought up our things,” she says, kissing his neck, rather puzzled. It’s not like Gendry to be fussy about where they lay their heads at night.

“S'not that. Just not sure I'll fit? It’s even shorter than the bunk on _Nymeria_."

She looks at the bed and frowns. He’s right. She'd not had a problem the last time she'd lived in Winterfell, but then, she's always been small. Whereas Gendry’s sized like a Baratheon all over.

“Oh. Well, maybe we can get another bed moved in?"

Gendry’s already back to kissing her again, his hands on her breasts, thumbs gently rolling her nipples.

“Later?”

She nods in wordless agreement and kisses him back, tugging at the laces on her own pants while he toes off his boots and then pulls the furs onto the floor in front of the hearth. Won’t be the first time they’ve fucked on a floor, and it surely won’t be the last.

There’s no self-consciousness as they lay down on the furs, and she spreads her legs for his hand while they kiss, his fingers quickly stroking and delving into her until she’s slick and open, her left hand giving his cock the same expert stroking.

And they both make exclamations of satisfaction when she eagerly mounts him, his cock fitting deliciously deeper with each hungry rock of her hips. She’s so pent up that she's already halfway to explosion- she's missed this so much.

They’ve been travelling for weeks, with no privacy since the Inn at the Crossroads, so he's as desperate as she is, and he grabs her hips to still her with a groan.

“Don't. Move. _Fuck. Arya._ "

She can feel how hard he is inside her—he’s on the brink.

“Actually, really _need_ you to fuck Arya,” she gasps smugly.

That makes an exasperated laugh burst out of him and gives him the distraction he needs.

“Seven Hells! Just need a minute."

She laughs. “…A minute, then."

He scoffs, but he pulls her down for a kiss and for a quiet moment they simply bask in their feelings, the intensity of their connection.

It’s a strangely effective distraction- she loves him so much. They’re finally going to be married, and she's so happy that her whole pack is going to be there to witness.

Then Gendry starts moving again, and she moans before she moves too.

Gods, it’s always so good. She adores his mouth on her neck and breasts, his hands on her hips, and the slick, full slide of his cock inside her. Arya rides him hard, crying out with the building intensity until she comes with a wail.

Gendry’s relentless with the rhythm of his thrusts and his mouth even as she shudders in his arms, and she greedily chases the next orgasm even as she’s coming off the high from the last, both knowing she can reach it again if they just keep this perfect moment going...

She comes three times before she pushes his face away from her breast. “Too much, too much," she gasps, “you on top?"

He obliges wordlessly, sitting up and then rolling to pin her under him in one smooth motion. She spreads her knees and brings them up so she can be fully open to him and they both moan when he goes even deeper. They kiss, all tongues and need and panting breathlessness, and she clutches at his shoulders as he adjusts his position and braces himself.

She moans with approval when he begins to fuck her harder. And when he ducks his head down and gives her nipple an experimental suck timed with his thrusts, she gasps assent and threads her fingers through his hair, arching up to give him better access. It's exactly what she needs, and within moments she's peaking and squeezing him convulsively inside her again, and he releases her nipple with a grimace.

“Arya,” he warns. “Arya, Arya-“

She's still riding the wave of her orgasm, but she clutches his butt and his shoulders, fucking back hard to meet his thrusts until his eyes shut tight and he stiffens on top of her, shouting. He shudders for long seconds as his dick pulses inside her, riding out the pleasure with some final thrusts before his body sags against hers with relief.

He makes a hapless, incoherent sound and she smiles and presses a kiss to his rough jaw.

“Me, too," she pants, running her hands over the muscles in his shoulders and back and butt. She loves his body, loves how good they can make each other feel. Loves that they get to do this with each other forever.

He rolls off her, face covered with that struck-dumb, blissed-out smile that fills her with such intense affection. She chuckles and cuddles against him, sliding her arm and leg back over him possessively.

“Where are you rolling off to?”

“M’too heavy for you,” he says, eyes shut, although he wraps an arm around her.

“I like feeling the weight of you.”

He grins lazily. “…Not if I fall’sleep.”

She chuckles. “Okay, not then," she agrees. He reaches out and blindly grabs at his cloak, and she helps tug it over their bodies and sighs contentedly.

She’s half-dozing with his heartbeat under her ear, reflecting on the powerful moments of the day, when she hears something unexpected- a whoosh of a cloak moving abruptly, sudden footfalls echoing in the hall.

She turns and looks up, spotting a gap in the mortar where there shouldn’t be one.

And she sits up. Who would dare? She’s the Hero of Winterfell; a Stark returned home triumphant.

“…Arya?” Gendry mumbles. He’s almost asleep- sex after a long dry spell always knocks him out.

She tugs her tunic over her head and grabs her dagger.

“Need a piss. Be right back,” she says.

She walks out purposefully, already mentally tracing the sound of the footsteps she heard. Up the west stairwell-

Sansa is standing there in the gloom, and she turns, swallowing apprehensively.

Arya just gapes at her a second. She’d thought it would be some nosy maid.

“ _Why?!_ " she demands.

Sansa swallows and grabs her by the wrist, tugging her along until they’re in her rooms --mother and father's old rooms-- before she finally speaks.

“I’m sorry! I wanted to be sure being wed wouldn't be as painful for you as it was for me!"

Arya narrows her eyes. “I’ve been sharing Gendry’s bed for almost two years. All of Westeros knows that.”

“And I didn’t understand why anybody, least of all _you_ , would ever want that!”

Arya’s mouth falls open. _She’s telling the truth._

“…Because fucking feels good. Why do you think men go to brothels?”

Sansa gives her a withering look. “For _men_ to feel good.”

Arya inhales and stops, sitting down on Sansa’s bed and wrapping herself in one of the blankets. “All right, bad example. But it’s _supposed_ to feel good for the woman too- and you’re _not_ too naïve to know that.”

Sansa shakes her head and sits gingerly next to her. “You were making sounds like I used to. Nobody ever stopped him, no matter how much I cried out. But you were kissing him and letting him touch you and touching him back. And then you got on top of him. Laughed after you put his... thing in you. And you were still crying out, but not because he was hurting or biting you. …He was _pleasing_ you.”

She laughs bitterly. “You know, Margaery Tyrell told me about how good it could be. Our Aunt Lyssa loved to be bedded- come to think of it; she was even noisier than you were. When I agreed to be married here, I hoped it would be duty turned to love like Mother and Father, thought that he was handsome enough and of the North, that our union in Winterfell _meant_ something... Instead he ripped off my beautiful wedding dress, bent me over the bed and made Theon watch while he forced me from behind like a dog. He did that and other… things with knives. Until Theon and I finally escaped. Most of the scars have faded; I’ve been able to do my toilet and roll over without pain for years. I’m Queen of the sovereign North; the Starks are beloved and safe and prosperous. But I never realized until I saw you with _your_ handsome, dark haired, blue-eyed bastard-turned-Lord that mine still has a… _hold_ over part of me somehow.”

Arya shakes, eyes brimming with tears and fists clenched. “I wish I could gut him a thousand times over for you.”

Sansa gives her a sardonic smile. “The one who passes the sentence should swing the sword. …And I fed my lord husband to his own horrible hounds.”

Arya nods, feeling some of the screaming horror she’d felt abate into cold, vengeful satisfaction. “I wish I could have watched that.”

Sansa raises a brow. “I did. He screamed. He was terrified. And he suffered.” She lowers her lashes dismissively. “Even if he’d suffered longer, it wouldn’t have fixed what he did to me. And I’m glad, truly, that you can be with your betrothed and feel that way instead. I just don’t understand… how did you even come to know him, nonetheless trust yourself to him like that? I mean, I heard you were visiting Jon’s Smith in the forge here, but you left right after the feast and you didn’t even speak to him in King’s Landing after he'd been legitimized. And then you sailed back to Westeros and instead of coming home to Winterfell, you rode down to Storm’s End and just took him as your lover…?”

Arya shrugs, looking away. “I preferred him a smith over a lord.”

Sansa scoffs and lifts her eyes. “You would."

Arya looks over at her sorrowfully. “…We were friends years before he came to Winterfell with Jon. We left King's Landing together with the Night’s Watch after… what happened at the Sept of Baelor. Travelled up the Kingsroad trying to get here, but it was too dangerous. Got stuck in Harrenhal for months under the Lannisters. Got caught again by the Brotherhood when we tried to get to Riverrun. The whole time he protected me and I protected him.”

Sansa smiles, obviously amused. “ _You_ protected him?”

Arya bristles. “He wasn’t good at thinking on his feet. Or making friends and paying attention to people the way I did. I saved us at least a couple times. But you’re right. In the end I was just a helpless little girl.” She remembers how she’d only been able to hurl pathetic insults at Melisandre while Gendry had been tied up and carted away. How he’d already chosen to part ways with her before that-- and how gently he’d tried to put it.

“Not anymore,” Sansa says firmly, shaking her from her reverie.

Arya gives her sister a ghost of a smile and squeezes her hand. “Not anymore,” she agrees. She arches a brow and gives her a pointed look. “Which means I’m getting proper mortar put in tomorrow.”

Sansa sighs. “I’ve already apologized and I meant it. Just be glad I didn’t call the guards in a panic when I heard you.”

Arya scoffs, snorting. “You making a scene over my unladylike behavior? Even now?”

“One of us has to think of your honor. You’re a Princess now, after all.”

They both regard each other seriously before bursting into laughter.

“Honestly, Arya! On the floor when there was a perfectly good bed!”

“Like Gendry could fit in my old bed!”

“He was given a guest chamber in the East wing!”

“Neither of us has slept alone for ages and we’re not about to start tonight!”

That revelation makes Sansa pause, and she closes her eyes and shakes her head. “I should have thought of that. Southron lords and ladies maintain separate chambers, but he’s lowborn, and you’re you. I’ll have a proper sized bed moved in for you immediately.”

Arya shakes her head dismissively. “Tomorrow’s fine- Gendry’s probably fast asleep now, anyway. Not the first time we’ve slept on a floor or the ground. When we were in Harrenhal we even slept in the mud as it rained. He kept me safe and warm then; I keep him safe and warm now.”

Sansa gives her a speculative look. “So you were in love with him even then?”

Arya’s eyes widen and she flushes and looks away. “Well, he was stupid and I was too young. And then here in Winterfell he was perfect... but I was No One.”

Sansa finally seems to understand- Arya can practically see her moving the pieces into place in her head. “So the third time was the charm?”

Arya rolls her eyes. “More like the Red God is an asshole. And Bran asked for a couple things. Didn’t realize until we were together again that he’d nudged me onto a path back.”

That makes Sansa’s brows knit together. “I had no idea he cared about that sort of thing anymore.”

Arya gives Sansa a pointed look. “He plays different games than you, maybe, but you’re both wearing crowns for a reason.”

Sansa arches a brow but says nothing for a long moment. Then she meets Arya’s eye. “I don’t have an heir either, and unlike Bran I’ll need one eventually. And I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to stand… that again.”

Arya hesitates over what Sansa’s not saying, then tilts her head and tries to divert her. “I know you liked all the songs and stories about princes and knights and ladies. But have you ever considered trying with another woman instead?”

Sansa doesn’t flush, exactly, but spots of color appear on her fair cheeks. “Like Yara Greyjoy?”

Arya’s brow twitches. “So you _have_ thought about it.”

Sansa gives her sister a derisive look. “The Iron Islands are better allies than enemies. I’m not an idiot, and she is quite open about her preferences.” She gives a sad shake of her head. “Honestly, I think she’ll never forgive us for losing Theon. And it still wouldn’t solve the problem of heirs.”

Arya sighs, annoyed. “I wasn’t talking about _marriage._ And Gendry and I aren’t ready for babies yet.”

Sansa eyes her. “So you’ve not decided against having them either?”

Arya gives her an aggrieved look. “Sex isn’t just for making heirs! It’s about being close to another person and making each other _feel good_. Ramsay Bolton _shouldn’t_ get to take that from you.”

Sansa looks down and shakes her head. “He shouldn’t have done a lot of things. But I’ve learned to be glad for what I have now. And that includes having the time and space and support to heal.” She gives Arya a tentative smile. “After all, our stories aren’t over yet.”

Arya’s eyes widen with recognition and she sighs before she concedes.

“…They aren’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: My first E fic ever, but a couple things were nagging me, so I just Went There.
> 
> First: Sansa’s trauma at Ramsay’s hands. I think the parallels between him and Gendry would have been triggering AF, especially in the context where Arya is about to marry the latter. And I know everybody processes their trauma differently, but I wanted a look at Sansa confronting it. Plus I wanted another Stark sister convo, because I think their relationship really didn’t get the fleshing out that it should have in S7/8. 
> 
> Second: I know getting-together sex is like, dopamine explosions, and fandom and media depict it plenty but sex in long-term relationships is often skipped over even though IMO it’s better? Ali Wong talking about how her husband has been trained to eat her out correctly in Hard Knock Wife gets it hilariously right. So I didn't want to euphemism through the love scene even if it's way more graphic than I usually write. (eep.)
> 
> Feedback of any sort is appreciated! I know these topics are sensitive, and I really don’t mind discussing my choices and editing or adding tags etc.


	2. Don't look away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up that this chapter is way more Sansa&sibling, Sansa vs. her trauma focused- the Gendrya is background, even though it's their wedding. Based on [this brilliant gifset.](https://twinedjupiters.tumblr.com/post/186251395841/father-will-know-if-you-do)

Sansa is delighted to ride to the Wall in a carriage with Bran.

It’s the perfect chance for information exchange, planning and negotiation with a fellow ruler and sibling, an opportunity to get more insight into Bran’s statecraft without interruptions and prying eyes and ears. He’s taken full advantage of being able to draw ideas from across history to benefit the Six Kingdoms, and Sansa sometimes wonders if she made the right choice to secure Northern independence when she did.

It still irks her that he’d shown so little innovation and ambition while he'd been in Winterfell, but she supposes that was part of how he’d managed to secure the bigger prize in the end.

No matter- what’s done is done, and it’s right that Starks –including a half-Stark named Aegon Targaryen-- finally wrested Northern freedom back three hundred years after Tohrren Stark knelt to Aegon the Conqueror. With Bran ruling the Six Kingdoms and blood relations in control of the Crownlands, the Eyrie, the Riverlands and the Stormlands, trade and other interactions with their southern neighbors are sure to remain positive.

Of course, they must not become complacent either, and Bran is currently checking on the West Coast, so she’s as good as alone in the carriage. It’s peaceful though, looking out the window beside the resting body of her brother while his mind roams hundreds of miles away, the carriage protected by both her Queensguard and his Kingsguard.

She’s pleased to see that the Kingsroad has been maintained properly, and she makes a mental note to recognize her holders for their efforts. The farms they are passing have undergone harvest or haying, fields cropped and fallow under the blanket of snow. There’s the occasional whiff of manure and the colourful hides of livestock dotting snowy pastures and gathered around haybales.

The North prospers again, and it satisfies her immensely to see people smiling and dipping their heads deferentially as their caravan goes by.

The Boltons had ruled through fear in the brief time they’d held the North, whereas these people know the Starks had shielded and sheltered them despite the betrayals: their respect, fealty and taxes were hard earned.

She looks ahead to where Arya's riding next to her betrothed, Stark and Baratheon banners fluttering before them. She's pointing out something to him and he's grinning at her with such warmth that Sansa feels her heart squeeze.

Arya, who’d only ever wanted to be a fighter and not a lady, riding gladly towards her union with a Lord Paramount. 

Trust Arya to carve out the perfect place for her odd self, and to find the only man in Westeros who would not just _permit_ her to hunt for his castle, help train his armed forces, and handle exports for his lands, but _adore_ her for it.

And trust fate’s dark sense of humor to have her, who’d been betrothed to a crown prince, end up carving out her crown and kingdom alone instead.

She’s proud of how far she’s come from the naïve girl she was, but there’s a kind of wistful envy that stirs when she remembers Arya sleepily cuddled against her husband-to-be. She can’t imagine feeling so safe while vulnerable and exposed in the arms of a man anymore.

In fact she’s still apprehensive of how it will feel, standing in front of a Heart Tree in the snow at night, hearing Arya speak the words that will bind her forever.

“It was the worst decision of your life," Bran suddenly says, and Sansa inhales and turns abruptly back to Bran before she raises her brows in agreement.

“…I just didn’t know it yet.”

“She would have understood if you’d stayed home. _‘There must always be a Stark in Winterfell,’_ after all.”

Sansa gives him a grim smile. “That doesn’t matter anymore- the North is free and secure. And Arya might not have minded, _but I would_.”

She looks down at the deceptively smooth skin on her hands- he’d made sure not to scar the parts of her that clothing didn’t cover. “Before he died he promised he'd always be a part of me. I’d hate to prove him right. Arya is marrying a man she loves who loves her, a Lord Paramount who armed us and fought bravely in the War for the Dawn. I want to be happy for them and show my support --the support of the North-- for their marriage.”

“It's convenient that their feelings don't run counter to politics.” Bran looks at her mildly. “You'll be happy the same way one day.”

Sansa gives him a searching look- one can never really know when or even _what_ Bran is talking about.

“…Are you saying I’ll _marry_ again?” 

“Yes.”

Sansa blinks, appalled. “Why would I be stupid enough to give any lord such power over me? And therefore the North?”

“I never said it would be a lord.”

That makes her eyes widen. “…A woman, then?” Perhaps she should extend diplomatic courtesies to the Iron Islands sooner rather than later. Things had been so tense after they'd chosen Bran, and they don't share a border, but maybe now...

Bran frowns slightly. “If I told you what I saw, it might not happen the same way. I only ever get glimpses. Whereas I can see you before the Heart Tree years ago with absolute clarity.”

Sansa inhales shakily and looks away.

He continues. “I can also watch through his hounds’ eyes as they devour him. They were truly… ravenous.”

Sansa exhales, relieved, before she gives him a startled smile. “…Did you just make a pun?”

Bran grins slyly, and she can’t help huffing an exasperated laugh and rolling her eyes.

Her siblings are _ridiculous_. But it's nice to know she's with her brother again, and not just the Three eyed raven.

* * *

She’s glad for his forethought later too.

She’s been steady enough throughout the emotional days before the wedding- it brought happy tears to her eyes to see Arya and Jon throw themselves at each other, sobbing with joy to be reunited, and she’s delighted to see the good health of Tormund Giantsbane and some of the hunters and woodswitches who had helped keep them all fed and healthy in the dark days after the War for the Dawn, when Jon had taken most of the able bodied soldiers and supplies South to fight for his Dragon Queen.

It’s wonderful to see Jon with more hope in his eyes than regret and weariness, as if he breathes lighter here in exile than he ever did as King.

He’d never wanted responsibility and power the way she had- she’s only sorry that getting them both what they wanted had taken such horrific, unexpectedly drastic means.

It’s good to see Ghost happy too, sitting content by Jon with his tongue lolling out and tail wagging, or leaping up with delight to run outside and play at the call of some wildling child.

The way Arya’s eyes light up at the sight of the cloak and dress she'd made is similarly gratifying.

She’s proud of her designs, the carefully chosen materials and hours of workmanship. Practical enough to fight in at need, but beautiful- a cream colored dress with a split skirt and carefully hidden pockets, designed for Arya to wear with her customary weapons. She'd embroidered two howling wolves and delicate silver snowflakes about the collar and down over the breast.

Arya will keep the dress, but the Stark cloak will go back to Winterfell after. In light of Bran’s words, Sansa wonders whether she herself will wear this cloak she’d pieced, sewn and embroidered so wistfully, believing it would only ever see use at Arya’s wedding: the falling weirwood leaves and running wolves wending over the grey wool as if dancing, the softest grey ermine lining the inside to keep her sister warm during the ceremony.

She’d made it at Arya’s request, in keeping with Gendry’s Southern traditions- he'd agreed to an Old Gods ceremony and to travel all the way up to The Wall so that Jon could take part, but he’d also wanted to do the symbolic changing of cloaks after their prayers. 

That will be different, at least, and it should all be over quickly enough— it’s a far less elaborate ritual then a Faith of the Seven wedding. It’s also a relief that they’ve decided to dispense with any sort of bedding—she doesn't want to see anybody ripping off Arya's clothing, no matter how jesting and light-hearted.

It’s easier to suppress her anxious feelings by keeping busy and reciting the list of contrasts: she's not just escaped; they're here for a wedding. Her wounds have healed so she's only imagining the smell of antiseptic balms. She has more than the single dress and ragged cloak to wear; she has lovely choices made with her own needle.

And she has a feast to organize despite Castle Black's poorly equipped kitchens and final alterations to make to Arya's bridal outfit. Jon may not know to get extra pie and cake pans from Moletown or what half the spices in the wagons are for, but he knows the castle well enough to organize cleaning and getting tables, benches and goblets from storage. 

Arya is still mostly useless with household things, but she's happy to bring back what winter flowers she can find (calendula, witch hazel and hellebore) to decorate the tables, and hunt with Jon and Ghost for their daily repast. She may never be a proper lady, and Sansa makes a mental note to check that Storm's End has a decent housekeeper, but she's appreciative of Sansa's efforts the way she never used to be.

In fact, as Sansa is dressing her she notices and admires little details like the black stags and grey wolves chasing around the hems, the pockets in which she’s stashed a similarly edged silk handkerchief, even that the hairstyle Sansa gives her is the one mother said their Aunt Lyanna had favored.

“She was supposed to marry a Baratheon, and you actually are. Besides, it suits you- I love that your hair is long enough to do pretty things with now.”

Arya tilts her head and smiles at her reflection in the mirror Sansa had brought from Winterfell, in her (correct) assumption that there would still be no decent one here at Castle Black. “It’s lovely- I should learn to do it so I can put it up on my own. Well? Do I look like a bride?”

Sansa finishes buttoning her up the back, and steps back to view the result.

“Wool crepe was the right choice- it hangs perfectly, and shouldn’t wrinkle much no matter what you do. You might have been a bit warmer tonight with a heavier weight wool but then you’d be too warm wearing this down south, so I made the cloak with enough fur to keep you from getting too cold.”

Arya gives her a questioning look. “Wearing this down south?”

Sansa nods. “We can easily dye this Baratheon yellow after, so you can wear it again for a formal occasion. Say, presenting a newborn heir to the court.”

Arya tilts her head derisively at her sister. “How incredibly thoughtful of you.”

Sansa smirks unrepentantly. “Thought you’d appreciate the practicality. No need to waste a perfectly good formal dress. You can also use it at tourneys and balls or formal dinners.”

Arya looks down at the sleeve, as if she’s trying to imagine it yellow. “I’ll always be a Stark, no matter what color I wear.”

“Which is why I embroidered the wolves right over your heart,” Sansa says briskly. She strokes Arya’s hair back from her face and smiles tremulously. ”You look beautiful.”

Arya smiles and takes hold of her hand in both of hers, eyes filling with tears. In time past, Sansa would have admonished her for letting them get so rough and calloused, but now she appreciates how they attest to her strength. “Thank you,” Arya whispers, and Sansa blinks back her own tears, shaking her head.

“It was my honor and pleasure. Truly. Shall I get Jon?”

“Please.”

There are more emotional tears when Jon does the cloaking, and Sansa wishes she could hold family moments like this forever, though they all seem bound to walk separate paths. Too soon, she pulls on her cloak and makes her excuses so the two can have their own private moment.

Sansa hurries from the chambers and out the open back gate of the castle, her Queensguard following automatically. Castle Black doesn’t have the resources Winterfell does: there are simple torches lighting the way to the Godswood instead of lanterns, although the delicious smells from the kitchens and dining room and the atmosphere of festive excitement is not at all like the harrowing bleakness in her memory.

It should be a good feast, full of the fruits of a continent no longer at war. They’d brought up casks of Arbor Gold, Dornish Red and plenty of ale, as well as live pigeons for the pie their odd baker friend had been commissioned to bake, plus the usual piglets and chickens and racks of beef and mutton. There had been whole wagons filled with crocks of preserves and honey for the desserts. Another full of cheeses, and another with hams and sausage.

Winter at the edge of civilization or not, this would be a feast worthy of celebrating the joining of two Great Houses.

And yet she still can’t help finding this all too familiar as she trudges through the snow, on a lighted path towards the Heart Tree alone in the cold. The way people crane their heads back to look at her makes it all the worse.

She hopes the darkness will hide the way her breath is starting to come in panicked gasps as she draws closer to the tree, looming white as bone before the gloom of the forest behind, its face forever mournful. _At least the tears of blood are apt,_ she thinks grimly. She gives Ser Davos Seaworth and Lord Gendry Baratheon a forced smile and nod to let them know that Arya and Jon will soon be on their way, and at that her duties are discharged at last.

Her Queensguard suddenly flanks her, and Ser Strongbeard speaks low. “Shouldn’t you stand opposite the Baratheons, Your Grace?”

Sansa nods and obeys numbly, making an effort to slow her breathing and keep herself from shivering visibly. She must be steel, not fragile porcelain.

She'd vowed that they would be forgotten. Their house is extinct. The army of the dead had reduced the Dreadfort to mere rubble.

But Sansa Stark is of the North. And the North remembers.

She’s so focused on getting herself in check that she doesn’t notice Ser Podrick urging her Queensguard back with a polite smile so he can wheel Bran right next to her.

She gasps when someone gently touches her elbow, although she hopes she suppresses the glassy eyed terror quickly enough once recognition sinks in.

“…Bran?”

“I'm with you. And you're in good company. Weddings used to move Mother to tears as well,” he says calmly as tears slip down her cheeks. He offers her his hand.

She clutches too tight, but it’s exactly the warm anchor she needs. The rest starts coming back into focus- Ser Davos and Lord Baratheon in their own finery—a truly lovely velvet brocade on that Baratheon cloak-- the crowd murmuring behind, the pitch scented smoke from the torches and cleaner smell of snow and woods.

Her breath, moving steadily now in and out of her chest.

She's still a little cold, but not alone. She won’t look away or shatter. So she pulls her own silk handkerchief from her pocket and dabs away the tears before she speaks.

“…I actually think Father would have cried harder tonight.”

“She told him she would never marry a lord.”

Sansa huffs an exasperated laugh- she can picture the blazing, obstinate look on Arya’s face exactly. “We all said stupid things when we were children.”

Bran smiles. “It’s still adds a nice touch of irony. I thought you’d appreciate it most.”

She gives his hand a little squeeze and slants him a smile. “I do.”

Ser Davos and Lord Baratheon suddenly straighten and smile wide, and the delight in their eyes makes everybody turn eagerly.

For Arya of House Stark, a woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, comes before the Old Gods this night to be wed.

And Sansa too, can’t wait to witness it.

* * *

The wedding is short and poignant, with bride and groom joyously claiming each other as expected and Jon crying harder than Arya, also as expected. In contrast, the feast after goes on several boisterous hours, with a constant supply of food, drink and entertainment.

It seems Lord Baratheon had gone past the Wall with Tormund, and battled next to the wildling for most of The Long Night, and therefore the bigger man is very enthusiastic about sharing Glorious Tales of the groom. Arya spends half the time grinning with delight and half the time shamelessly egging Tormund on, to Gendry's obvious chagrin. Arya's first mate on her ship _Nymeria_ then takes up the outrageous tale-telling role on Arya's behalf, and then Ser Davos adds even more colorful stories from their trip over the Sunset Sea. 

When the stories and accompanying cheers and hoots peter out, the music starts. She'd hired musicians, but there are plenty of eager amateur players among the wildlings and their rousing choruses and thumping beats soon fill the hall. Sansa doesn't recognize any of the songs, but she claps along with everybody else, the musicians quickly learn to carry the tune, and tables are moved aside so folks can dance.

It's nothing like the lavishly organized weddings she'd attended in King's Landing. This is a celebration of life and love and not merely an display of wealth and consolidated power.

Although she's appreciative that she has some excellent Arbor Gold in her goblet instead of ale, no matter how nice Jon says the Winterfell brew is.

“Your Grace. Are you all right?”

Lord Baratheon’s brow is furrowed with concern, and Sansa smiles politely. _So he noticed._ _Well, at least he’s family now._

“Shouldn’t you be celebrating with my sister?" 

He tilts his head, as if considering before he looks back at her. “She’s learnin’ some dance from Jon now, and I thought you looked upset, before. Figured I should make sure." He makes a sound of surprise when she adroitly pours some wine and pushes the goblet towards him.

“Arya talked to you about my former husband.”

His blue eyes are earnest and troubled, so unlike the icy coldness of Ramsey’s. He sits down quickly, bows graciously over the goblet and takes a sip as expected. “It’s not often I see her cry," he admits, and he shakes his head and meets her eyes again. “I'm grateful you're here, but I'm sorry it was so rough on you."

Sansa lowers her eyes dismissively. “I should be the one to apologize- I didn't know it would upset me like that. But it was worth it. I got to see a sibling happily married at last,” she says lightly. "And family is worth sacrifice."

Gendry nods grimly. "You Starks go hard when you care. Too hard, sometimes, I think."

Sansa regards him thoughtfully. Honest and blunt to a fault- her new good-brother is a lot like Jon, actually. No wonder Arya took it upon herself to negotiate with the Iron Bank on his behalf. “You know, when she first came back to Winterfell she didn’t seem like Arya at all. It was like a stranger wore her skin and all her vim and fire had turned cold and sharp. She used to be underfoot _everywhere_ , have a thousand prying questions. Instead she lurked silent and watchful, practicing with her weapons alone rather than making friends. Except when it came to this one smith Jon had brought with him. I should have realized then what you were to her.”

Gendry shrugs uncomfortably and they both look over to where Jon and Arya are stomping around with a circle of whirling wildlings, laughing and breathless. It’s infectious, and Sansa smiles and continues. “You’re not wrong. But she’s herself again, and I think we have to thank you for that. And maybe you can keep her from more foolhardy Stark tendencies in future.”

Gendry shakes his head, although he's also grinning at their antics. "Yeah, no, I know what you mean. Especially about the questions, gods. But I can't claim credit. She was all hot and cold, refused me and ran off, right over the edge of the world. She got herself back all on her own before she came to find me again.” He flushes and scoffs. “I’m absolutely not the person who ever keeps Arya Stark from doing whatever she’s set her mind to.”

“…In fact you’re the one aiding and abetting her. You're definitely family, then,” Sansa says teasingly, laughing.

Gendry smiles and nods, but she can tell he’s pleased. “I'll drink to that."

They both do, and she’s about to direct the conversation towards her hopes for future nephews and nieces when she notices that Bran is holding his hand up. And he beckons when he sees that he has her attention.

She frowns over at him and nods before turning back to Gendry. "I'm so sorry- it appears Bran requires me for something. Will you excuse me?"

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“ _Sansa._ Please. We're family now, after all.”

He nods, eyes widening, and stands when she does, bowing slightly, though she notes with amusement that he doesn’t use her name as bid.

She likes her new good-brother.

Bran is with a couple of the musicians, and Ser Brienne, standing guard next to him, gives her a warm smile and nod.

Bran looks up at her and smiles mildly. “Sansa, I believe you can help us. Some have been asking for songs that are better known to those of us from further south. Are you familiar with _“Flowers of Spring”_?”

She blinks with surprise and smiles, demurring. “It’s been years since I’ve performed. Besides, it’s a duet, and unless _you’re_ going to sing the part of the shepherd, I think we’re going to have to continue to enjoy these energetic wildling melodies.”

“You’ve been singing again, so you’re not out of practice. And these players know the tune. Don’t you?” 

“Well, just in the solar while sewing…” Sansa pauses and gives Bran a searching look as the musicians make noises of agreement. _Why is he being so insistent?_

Ser Brienne clears her throat. “Your graces, if I might make a suggestion? Ser Podrick is a gifted singer. Shall I summon him over and see if he knows the tune?”

Sansa gives Brienne a stunned look. “Pod can sing?”

“I didn’t know it myself until just before The Long Night,” she replies, chagrined. She signals him from where he’s guarding the door, and he frowns, speaks to her Queensguard on the other side of the door and starts over.

Sansa smiles at the handsome, upright figure Podrick displays in his golden Kingsguard armor- it suits him far better than those ill-fitting Lannister leathers.

“Your Graces, Ser Brienne. How can I serve?”

“Ser Podrick, do you know _“Flowers of Spring”_?” Sansa asks.

He blinks in confusion and glances around at the expectant faces before him. “The song…?” He suddenly smiles as understanding dawns. “You’d like me to sing the duet with you? Oh, it would be my honor, Your Grace. I’ve heard you’ve a lovely soprano. Is there a key you prefer?” 

Sansa flushes, her heart skipping faster. It’s been so long since she’s sung before an audience. “Well, given the original key of the music, I suppose we could try B♭…”

Podrick nods eagerly and they both turn to confer with the musicians- a ballad will be a relief after so many rollicking dances. Maybe Lord Gendry will even get to dance with his bride—

Sansa exhales with sudden understanding and turns to give Bran a knowing smile.

“Checking that we know the same verses- first you, ‘ _S_ _nowbanks melting, winter's warming, chinook 'cross the field..._ '?” Pod sings softly, but with such beautiful tone and pitch that Sansa’s eyes widen with delight.

“…Yes, that’s the one I learned- _‘treebuds sprout, chill be out, and frosts are soon to yield…_ ’ How have I never heard you sing before, Pod?”

He tilts his head good-naturedly, smiling. “I don't know. I suppose nobody ever asked." 

Such an unexpected treat to be asked to sing again. She can easily think of three romantic songs she’d love to try with such a capable partner. The sibling meddling will just be the icing on the cake.

Sansa bends her head closer to Pod’s so they can all look over the music one of the players has pulled out of his case, and she doesn’t notice the way he blushes at her proximity.

She’s too happily occupied to notice Bran’s smug smile either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't decide on which Sansa-ship I want more so you get both implied! :D 
> 
> I really wanted to see more Stark family bonding and Gendry realizing he has more family now than just Arya? And Bran manipulating people is just delightful to me, so. :DDD
> 
> (I'm [nrgburst](https://nrgburst.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.)


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